


Aren't We Glad The Folks Are Gone

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-08
Updated: 2009-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany’s voice – her, “I’m-not-amused-with-you-for-real” voice – cuts through her thoughts. “Now, explain to me what you’re doing here?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aren't We Glad The Folks Are Gone

“You’ve never babysat before,” Rachel points out, for maybe the seventh time, Santana thinks, since she showed up on the Berry’s doorstep with a plastered-on smile and a grocery bag filled with Baby Einstein DVDs.

Santana holds back her angry retort and smiles patiently. “Quinn thinks it’ll be fine.”

“But-”

“Rachel, I’ve totally got this,” Brittany says, snapping her gum. “I’m certified.”

Rachel looks unconvinced and turns back to Quinn who is leaning over the crib whispering something neither of them can hear. Rachel turns back with a semi-frown.

“Why are you even here? Didn’t Quinn ask Brittany to babysit, not you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of watching-”

“Guys,” Quinn hushes them, coming into the hallway and closing the door softly behind her. “I just got-”

“Santana has never babysat before,” Rachel all but shouts, like a kid tattle-telling, with a smug smile.

“You haven’t?” Quinn asks.

“Brittany is here. What can go wrong?”

Santana regrets the words as soon as they come out of her mouth because Rachel’s face pales considerably and Quinn’s forehead starts to pile together in a frown and now Santana is picturing standing out on the front lawn watching the house burn down and Quinn and Rachel getting back the same time as Mr. and Mr. Berry and only being able to say  _“my bad.”_

“I mean,” she continues, “I was sexting Puck that one time while  _you_  were babysitting and he said it wasn’t even a big deal.”

Rachel almost faints; Quinn’s eyes narrow in a glare; Brittany punches her in the shoulder.

“Damn it, Britt!” She rubs at the spot and misses Quinn’s balled-up fist aimed at her other shoulder. “Quinn! What was that for?”

Quinn points a finger into Santana’s face. “You want me to leave you with Brittany and-”

“For bringing up the word ‘sex’ in the same sentence as Puck,” Brittany says at the same time, cutting Quinn off. “I didn’t even invite you!”

Rachel laughs behind her hand and then averts her eyes when Santana rounds on her.

“Don’t you two have dinner reservations?” she asks snidely.

It does the trick because Rachel hates being late and cancelling things at the last minute and Quinn hates making Rachel upset unless she’s the one making Rachel upset, and this time, if Rachel gets angry, it’ll be because she’s arguing with Santana. Quinn grabs her jacket off the doorknob of her room, takes Rachel’s hand – Santana watches them fit together perfectly and promptly feels like throwing up at all the gooeyness – and looks at Brittany.

“If you need  _anything_ ,” she says in a low tone. “I don’t care  _what_ ; if you need to use the bathroom and don’t want to leave Santana alone with-”

“Hey!” Santana protests.

“You call me,” Quinn continues over Santana. “And if you can’t for some reason, get me, you call Rachel.”

Brittany smiles brightly. “Check and check. You guys, I totally have this under control.”

Rachel gives Brittany a long steady stare and then smiles; it’s all the reassurance Quinn needs. Santana watches Quinn toss Rachel the keys and then they’re down the stairs and out the door, Quinn yelling something about no boys being allowed in the house and Rachel cackling.

“Finally,” Santana sighs. “I thought they’d never leave,” she clarifies, reaching for Brittany’s hips, but Brittany just shrugs her off.

“I really didn’t invite you.”

\---

Brittany is upstairs so Santana settles into the couch and glances around the Berry’s living room, shrugging because it’s not that bad. There are pictures everywhere, which is something she expected because it’s  _Rachel Berry_ , but there are other pictures too: pictures of Quinn and Rachel laughing into Quinn’s hair; pregnant Quinn and Rachel’s parents; Rachel and her parents and Quinn and-

Brittany’s voice – her,  _“I’m-not-amused-with-you-for-real”_  voice – cuts through her thoughts. “Now, explain to me what you’re doing here?”

“You won’t text me back,” Santana says helplessly. “So I made Quinn tell me that you were babysitting tonight.”

“I’m not answering your texts because I’m mad at you,” Brittany says, as if Santana didn’t figure that out after the first seventeen ignored messages.

Santana pouts. “Baby-”

“You hurt Kurt’s feelings!”

“I think your allegiance is to the wrong person here,” Santana tries to argue reasonably.

Brittany puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t even want the stupid crown.”

“I just want you to win so that you can…” Santana pauses and frowns. “I’m sorry,  _what_  did you just say? You  _don’t_ want to be Miss. McKinley 2011?”

“I never wanted to be.”

“But, but,” Santana sputters. “But I thought-”

Brittany smiles sympathetically. “It’s really sweet of you Santana, but Kurt really wants that crown and I really don’t need it.”

“I thought you wanted that crown?”

“I don’t need it.”

“But if you  _want_  it-”

“I wanted you to be, you know, proud of me, but Kurt really deserves it.”

Santana sighs and pulls at the end of her ponytail. “So rigging his locker to drop that slushie on him?”

“Wrong,” Brittany says, frowning in a way that looks just like Mr. Schuester.

“And taking down his flyers?”

“Wrong.”

“And the red paint?”

“ _Extra_  wrong,” Brittany says firmly. “You owe him an apology.”

“I’ll apologize to him tomorrow,” Santana promises solemnly and she’s grateful that Brittany knows she doesn’t really mean apologize and just means that she’ll cease and desist  _Operation Carrie Kurt_. “Can I apologize to  _you_  tonight?”

Brittany thinks about, really thinks about, before smiling wide and nodding, all the while moving closer to the couch, standing between Santana’s knees. She leans down as Santana leans up and they meet halfway, Brittany’s bottom lip caught between Santana’s teeth.

It’s a shame Brittany can’t do this on stage, because kissing? That, Santana decides, is Brittany’s  _real_  talent: not too much tongue, just enough suction, and she always brushes her teeth.

Santana reaches up, her hands finally landing where they tried to earlier and she tugs, twisting as she does, until Brittany is on her back on the couch and Santana is hooking a hand under Brittany’s knee, moving so that she can rest one arm on the couch and biting the tip of Brittany’s tongue.

“S,” Brittany says, pulling back, breaking the kiss. “We can’t.”

“Quinn and Rachel aren’t going to be home for a little while,” Santana argues, “and-”

As if on cue, there’s a loud cry from up the stairs and Brittany is pushing Santana off her and onto the floor and tearing up the stairs.

Santana stays on the ground and groans.

\---

Eventually, when she realizes that Brittany isn’t coming back down, she wanders up the stairs and leans against the doorway leading to the nursery.

Brittany is singing honest-to-God lullabies and there is giggling and squealing and it feels so oddly domestic that Santana grimaces and feels like going out, getting drunk and talking dirty.

“Hey, look who it is,” Brittany says in a baby voice, lifting a little hand and pointing it in Santana’s direction. “It’s Auntie Santana.”

Santana snorts. “I’m too hot to be an Aunt.”

Brittany ignores her. “Auntie Santana is just mad because Auntie Brittany won’t make out with her, isn’t that right, Raindrop?”

“I still don’t see why you insist on calling her that.”

Brittany looks up and speaks in her normal-pitched voice. “Finn wanted to name her Drizzle.”

“What do you care?”

Brittany frowns. “Finn might not be the father, but he was, for a little bit” and Santana really wants to whip out the diagram Rachel drew everyone when the whole baby drama exploded – the one that showed the baby’s genealogy and her parents-by-association – so she could explain, again, how Finn  _isn’t_ the father, but Brittany keeps speaking. And Finn wanted to name her Drizzle. Raindrop is a compromise.”

Santana gives her a  _“what-the-hell”_  look. “But her name is-”

“I  _know_  what her name is, S. I just like calling her Raindrop. She likes it too,” Brittany says matter-of-factly and goes back to the baby-voice. “Isn’t that right, Raindrop?”

Santana rolls her eyes and crosses the room, grabbing chubby little arms and gives a tug, out the door down the stairs before Brittany can protest.

“Let’s see what’s on TV,  _Raindrop_ ,” she says, for Brittany’s benefit, settling back onto the couch and tucking her feet up under her so the toddler can’t get away. She peers down at the almost-two-year-old and frowns.

“Stop frowning at her,” Brittany says, sitting on Santana’s other side, sandwiched between the arm of the couch and the other cheerleader. “You’re going to scare her.”

“Are you sure,” she starts, ignoring Brittany, “that Berry doesn’t have some type of lesbian power and  _she’s_  really the one who got Blondie knocked up? Because this nose? It’s not Puck’s nose and it sure as hell ain’t Quinn’s nose.”

“Don’t swear in front of-”

“I mean,” Santana continues, “what about her even looks like Puck?”

“Well, she’s Jewish.”

Santana turns slowly, wondering if Brittany is going to answer her own question, or if she’s really going to have point out that there’s a Menorah in the window of the Berry home.

“Yeah, Britt,” she finally says when Brittany stares at her expectantly. “You got it.”

Brittany smiles and Santana remembers why she puts up with all the inane questions. She feels a smile stretch on her face and Brittany’s smile gets even wider.

The blond leans over Santana and grabs a little fist in her hand. “See, Raindrop? No matter what your Mommies say, your Auntie Santana isn’t The Grinch.”

It takes a minute for it to sink in, and then-

“Hey!”

\---

The door opens around eleven and Santana reflexively frowns, because it’s a school night and the door creaking open is loud and Rachel is even louder, laughing about “dancing shrimp” and Santana thinks that even if she had heard the whole joke, it wouldn’t be funny.

“Ooo,” Quinn says in an exhalation of breath, her hand pressed against her chest where her heart is. “That’s so cute,” she whispers.

Santana wants to growl, but she can’t because Brittany’s head is on her chest and any sudden movement would surely send Brittany across the room, so she tries to lift her hand to shush the two mommies, but she there’s a tiny hand caught in between her fingers so she settles for frowning some more and hopes they get the point.

“Come get the runt,” she hisses when they continue to stand in the doorway, awe on their faces.

“Don’t call her that,” Quinn snaps, but she’s smiling and stepping closer and that’s when Brittany starts to wake up, opening one eye and then the other, blinking a few times before Santana can see the realization of where she is spreading on her face.

“How was dinner?” she asks sleepily, leaning over and kissing the corner of Santana’s mouth.

“Dancing shrimp,” Rachel squeaks, bursting into laughter again. Quinn rolls her eyes and reaches for her daughter but Santana shrinks into the couch and shifts to shield Quinn’s hands.

“I’ll do it,” she mutters gruffly, because Rachel is still laughing and its grating on her headache that’s suddenly developed. “Just keep the dancing shrimp over there contained.”

She thinks, as she ascends the stairs, that she hears Quinn say “And what happened then? Well, in the Berry house they say, that Santana Lopez’s small heart grew three sizes that day.”

She wonders how long The Grinch thing has been a running joke and who she’s going to have to punch in order to get it to stop.   
  
But first, she needs to put the kid to bed.


End file.
